


Disaster in Motion

by Kammitdammy



Category: IT - Stephen King, Reddie - Fandom, stenbrough - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kammitdammy/pseuds/Kammitdammy
Summary: "Beautiful things sometimes grow in broken places," Eddie told Richie. "Think about roses growing through the cracks on the sidewalk." He smiled a small smile, his lips tugging up on one side in an almost sad looking way.TW: ANXIETY ATTACKS, SELF HARMPLEASE BE SAFE AND IF THESE TRIGGER YOU, PLEASE DONT READ.





	1. Broken Places

**Author's Note:**

> These chapters start out short but will get longer and longer as the story goes on. Bare with me here, I apologize for the short chapters at the beginning

 It was a cold, chilly Thursday afternoon, the air crisp, the sky glowing crimson pink. Richie was there, sitting on his back porch, but feeling so, so far away. Wishing to be anywhere else. Anywhere as long as it was far enough away from this place that he'd never have to see it again.

   He'd skipped school, yet again. This made the third time this week. A drag off his cigarette filled his lungs, the feeling almost comforting. Exhaled. The smoke billowed around him like a cloud, no breeze in sight to blow it away. He smirked, a small, almost sad smile playing at his lips.  
   He was totally and completely alone, as he'd found himself before, but this was different. This was deafening silence and the yearning to be close to someone, anyone. He had been alone for far too long. He craved someone's presence.  
Looking around, sighing, he flicked his still burning cigarette butt across the yard, shaking his head in what was almost defeat. He'd always be alone, he realized. His reckless behavior, his lack of self care. He was a disaster in motion. Alone, to explode or implode by himself.  
   The silence ate away at him, drove him crazy. Mad. He was mad. Mad at himself for being alone, mad at his parents for leaving him alone and taking his sister. His sister, god how he missed his sister. Addy was everything he could ask for in a sibling. Funny, caring. And his fucking parents took her away when they left him alone in this god forsaken house.  
   His head shook again, and he laughed a quiet, humorless laugh. He hated them, he hated himself, he hated the whole damned situation he was in. But he couldn't bring himself to change it. He couldn't bring himself to do anything but relish in the silence that he hated so much because it was so loud and intruding. Because it forced him to think of things like breaking his hand on that kids face that one time because they called him a fucking pussy. Things like how he accidentally put a cigarette out on himself because he missed the ash tray when he was so drunk that he saw double. About that time he did the same again, but sober because he liked the way it felt. Oh, how he had liked the way it felt.  
   He raked a hand through his long, soft, black curls and sighed once more before putting his hands on his knees and standing from his spot on the step. His heart felt so heavy that he almost fell back. But he didn't. He stayed standing and stepped quietly, cautiously back into the living room of the house, his house that he was all alone in.  
   "Such a broken place," he mumbled to himself, quietly, his voice husky and grim.


	2. Broken People

Richie shut the engine to his car off, now sitting in the school parking lot. Rolling his eyes, he sparked up his third cigarette of the morning. Tired. He was tired. More than that, he was exhausted. Inhaling a mouth full of smoke, he grimaced at the thought of going to school that cool Friday morning. The Tozier boy, nineteen and still in senior year, contemplated leaving, going to the quarry. Sitting on the edge of the cliff he used to jump off of with his friends when he was young. When he still had friends.   
He shook his head ever so slightly, barely even moving. No. He couldn't go there. He'd break. He'd crack, and he'd crumble, and he'd fall apart. He'd been doing his best to keep his broken pieces together for three years, ever since his family had left. Since his friends had left. Left him all alone in this stupid fucking town with these stupid fucking people who were all as broken as he was. Better at hiding it than he was, too.   
He wiped a stray tear that had fallen down his cheek. He hadn't noticed it until it ran down his chin, threatening to drip onto his ripped, faded black jeans. He took another drag, his cigarette between his long, bony fingers.   
Looking at his wrist, he winced. Richie had almost completely forgotten about the cigarette burn there, and the others littering his arms like snowflakes on the ground in early December. Trying, he failed at remembering what his arms looked like before the pink and purple scars, perfect circles on his heavily tattooed skin.   
Trying to remember what he was like before Beverly offered him his first cigarette, what he was like before everything turned to shit. He failed, yet again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.   
It wasn't long before his cigarette was gone and he was snuffing it out in the ash tray that rested in his cup holder, then getting out of the old beat up car his dad had left him. The only thing his dad had left him. He slammed the door, not wanting to think about it.   
Approaching the school entrance, he kept his head tilted down, dark curls covering the upper half of his face. No one seemed to notice him walk in the door. The tall figure, clad in dark, ripped skinny jeans, a bright Hawaiian shirt open and flowing over a tight black tank top. Boots clunking as he walked, wallet chain rattling, hooked to his belt loop. 

Sitting down in his seat in homeroom, AP Calc, he rested his feet on his desk, leaning back.   
"Finally decide to join us, Mr. Tozier?" Mrs. Clementine drawled, southern accent irking Richie's last nerve. "What took you so long?" She sounded sweet enough, voice dripping like honey, but he couldn't stand the woman a bit.   
"Flu," he simply said, putting his shoes back in the floor and leaning over his desk to put his head in his arms.   
"Hmph," she groaned to herself, more of a thoughtful sound than an accusation. "Anywho, class, we have a new student. Edward Kaspbrak, please introduce yourself."  
"A new student in senior year. What, you couldn't just finish at your old school?" Richie didn't even look up from his desk.   
"Dick," Edward shot back at him. "I'm Eddie. Just moved here with my mom. That's about it, I guess."   
Richie didn't have to look at him to know he was beautiful, but he looked anyway.   
Holy shit, he was. He was more beautiful than anyone he'd seen in this shitty town, and he was new. Eddie didn't know everything about him yet. But everyone is a little broken in one way or another.   
Eddie just looked more-so well put together than the rest of them. Little did Richie know, he was wrong. He was dead wrong.   
Richie wanted to apologize, he wanted to say he was out of line for saying that to him. But he couldn't. A lump was in his throat as he just gazed at the beautiful boy sitting beside him. Short brown curls bounced as Eddie answered questions, and his doe brown eyes sparkled when he got them right. His frame was slender, and he looked to be shorter than Richie by about a head or two, but that wasn't new. Richie was six foot three, so he was used to being the tallest person at the hellhole.  
He couldn't tear his eyes away from Eddie, and Eddie didn't seem to notice. And if he did, he didn't care.   
But the silence was back, and it was enveloping Richie as it always did. People were talking and cutting up and laughing all around him, but it sounded like he was hearing it through water. Like he was in a whole different world, all alone, looking into a portal to a different universe at a boy who could perhaps make him happy. He shook his thoughts away.   
He would just destroy that boy like he destroyed everything that made him happy in the last three years. He was alone. He'd always be alone.


	3. Only a Ride Home

The final bell couldn't come quickly enough, but when it finally did, Richie sighed in relief. He yearned for a cigarette. An escape. Anything, really. But especially a bottle. He wanted to get shitfaced. He wanted to get so absolutely smashed that he couldn't see right or walk straight. Lucky for him, he recollected, there was a bottle of apple flavored whiskey in his freezer. He smiled at the thought, walking through the double doors that lead to the student parking lot.   
And he froze, dead in his tracks when he spotted him. Beautiful in the afternoon light, sun behind him, casting what looked like a halo around the beautiful Edward Kaspbrak.   
He was suddenly very far away from his normal self, a confident smooth talking lady killer, but instead he was small and a walking bundle of nothing but nerves. But he made his way to Eddie, nonetheless.   
He raised a hand when Eddie looked at him, smiling sheepishly. "Hey, Eddie," he started.  
"What do you want?" Eddie snapped. Right, the comment in class.  
"L-look I'm sorry about that comment. My name is Richie, by the way. Richard Tozier." His voice was small and weak and he winced at how childlike he sounded. He hated it. This has never happened before, he was always in his element when it came to flirting, he thrived at it. He survived off of the attention. It made him feel less...well, less alone.   
"Nice to meet you, Richie," Eddie said lightly and all of a sudden, Richie's stomach was warm. It felt like he'd stepped in a hot tub after being frozen solid in a block of ice. If one boy could evoke such a feeling in him just by saying his name, Richie knew he was in trouble.   
"Would you like...uh..a ride home, maybe?" Richie swept his arm in the direction of his black Honda Civic. "It's not the nicest, but it runs alright, and I'll drive real safe." Richie smiled at Eddie as he seemed to be thinking it over.   
"Wait, didn't I see you at that house across the street?" Eddie's tone was curious instead of accusing, like Richie expected.   
"Yeah, that's...that's where I, uh. That's where I stay," Richie mumbled weakly. And he hates it. He hates his house and he hates that this beautiful boy lives across the street from him and he hates himself because he can't get a fucking grip during this conversation and he feels like a goddamn puppy tripping over it's own too-big, too-floppy ears, but instead of ears, he's tripping over words, and his heart is tripping over itself every time Eddie speaks or looks up at him with those huge, honey brown eyes and he hates it.   
He glanced at Eddie, awaiting an answer, trying to get out of his own head. And then it happened. Something that would change Richie and his life for at least a good while. Whether it be for better or worse, Richie so desperately craved a change, and there it was, right in front of him, about to utter the words.   
"Yeah, I'd like to take you up on the offer." He stuck his hand out towards Richie, initiating a hand shake. Richie obliged and shook, letting his hand linger in Eddie's for a beat too long, and letting his eyes linger for another beat too long, and he moistened his lips with his tongue and turned on his heel, motioning for the shorter, beautiful boy to follow. He did follow.   
Richie opened the passenger door for Eddie. Eddie smiled his thanks. Richie's heart fluttered and jumped into his throat. Goddamnit! Why does he always do this? He knew he was going to ruin something. Anything. Any chance he had at change because of this boy in the seat beside him in his little black beat down car was going to implode or explode or be torn apart by him in the worst possible way, and all Eddie could do was smile at him warmly and it pissed him off because he could fall for that smile, for this boy right here, so quickly if he could let himself but he couldn't because he didn't want to destroy this boy.  
   He had been staring. He hadn't realized it but he had been staring. Staring at Eddie, staring for far too long. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at his lap. He couldn't believe his mind, it was just a fucking ride home. Only a ride home, why was he doing this to himself?


	4. Unobtainable

Richie pulled up to Eddie's driveway and stopped. "This is the place, yeah?" His voice was thick, raspy. Quiet. Almost too quiet. Eddie almost didn't hear him. But he did. By some miraculous thing, he heard him.  
He smiled in return and nodded, saying a quick yes before getting out of the car. He halted. For only a second, back still to Richie. "Would you like to come over sometime? I've noticed it's just you at that house." And without waiting for Richie to respond, Eddie walked to his porch. He slung his head over his shoulder, calling out only four words to Richie before opening the door and disappearing from sight. "It's an open invitation."   
It's an open invitation. The words repeated themselves in Richie's head as he sat there, dumbfounded at the niceness of the offer. Of course he wanted to. But could he actually? No. He couldn't. He couldn't because he'd fuck up. He'd say the wrong thing and he'd ruin any chance of a friend he might have. But. Eddie was beautiful and Richie wanted the chance to see him as much as possible. No, his head filled with negative things. He couldn't. He just couldn't, no questions asked.   
He turned the key in the ignition and the car purred to life. He then simply pulled into his own driveway across the street and put the car in park, pulling his pack of Marlboro Black Menthol 100's out of his shirt pocket and sticking a single cancer stick between his lips.   
He exited the car, stretched. Felt his back and elbows and shoulders all pop at once and he walked around the back of the house to sit in his usual spot on the back porch.   
He had made up his mind. He was getting shitfaced that night.   
Richie had always had an addictive personality. He was "addicted" to a lot of things. Music. Poetry. Art. Even things as small as bouncy balls and green apple chewing gum. But as he grew older, his addictions morphed into something that could actually kill him. Cigarettes, cocaine, and whiskey, also coincidentally green apple flavored. Guess that was another addiction. He loved the tart, sour, but still sweet flavor of the artificial apple. He loved it so much that even his favorite bug juice when he was little had been the green apple one, and his favorite pop sickle flavor had been as well.   
Guess some things never change, he thought, sadly, raking his curls out of his face with his long fingers. If they made green apple cigarettes, he'd be addicted to those even more so too.   
He pulled a lighter out of his shirt pocket where his cigarettes were, flicked it a few times, then lit his smoke, inhaling a mouthful. Warmth spread through his lungs at that first hit and he exhaled with a sad smile. It wasn't the same warmth that spread through his entire chest when Eddie had smiled at him, invitingly, friendly. He wished it was. God, he fucking yearned for it to be. How he already missed that gorgeous smile from the boy across the street.   
Damnit Richie get it together. He can't do this, he simply cannot. He took another drag of his cigarette, inhaling deeply. Holding it for no longer than a second, and exhaled. Relished in the taste of mint and tobacco mingling together at the back of his throat. His mother's words rang in his head. It's like smoking candy, I don't see how you do it. She had taken a puff of her own cigarette, a Marlboro Red 100. He didn't see how she could handle those. They tasted awful and they burned his tongue.   
He missed her, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it. She had left him all alone in this house with no help at the age of sixteen. Sixteen fucking years old and he was left to fend for himself, without so much as a goddamn call to see how he was doing. How could a mother leave their child like that? With no notice? While he was asleep, nonetheless. In the middle of the night, just pack up everything, including his sister, the most important thing in the world to him, and just fucking leave. She was no mother at all.   
He looked down at his trembling hands, reading the tattoo across his knuckles. It said "free". But was he really free? Or was he just trapped in his own fucking mind with no one at all to care about and with no one at all to care about him and no one to fucking talk to and oh my fucking god the silence was driving him crazy because it was so loud and suffocating. How do people like this shit? How can people stand being so fucking alone? He wanted to scream, but instead, he took another inhale of cigarette smoke. Of possible cancer. Of his possible fucking demise and he smiled a melancholic smile, one that weighed on his mind and his heart and showed in his eyes how goddamn unhappy he was. And oh god, he was so unhappy and he ached to be happy but happy was so unobtainable and it made him ache so, so much more. So much more.


	5. Chaos

   Richie pulled the bottle of Green Apple Jim Beam from his freezer, smiling to himself greedily. It was still almost full.   
   He busied himself with drinking it right away, pulling big, greedy gulps from the bottle. Chugging. Coming up for air, chugging again, until only about a shot was left. This was his regular Friday night. Getting smashed, and then falling apart, it was a never ending cycle, and he couldn't stop because he was addicted to the how the bottle felt in his palm, cool and solid. Everything he wished he was. He couldn't stop he was addicted to how the alcohol made his head swim. It was easier and harder to make sense of his mind all at the same time.  
   He couldn't stop because he was addicted to the release that being drunk forced him to have. The emotional strain would all be let out into the open and he'd feel better for a day or two.   
   He staggered into the living room slightly, the full effects of the alcohol not quite kicking in just yet. It always took about twenty minutes.   
   Sinking into the couch, he lit up another cigarette, the minty flavor mixing weirdly with the bitter sweet green apple taste still in his mouth. He liked it. It was like apple and ash trays were mingling on his taste buds and it exhilarated him. So much more than it should've.   
   Then a tear fell from his eye. And another. And another, until there were too many to keep wiping away with the back of his hand, not caring if he burnt himself with his still lit cigarette in the process. Then he stood, unable to keep sitting. Jesus fuck, the silence was back and it was so loud yet again, so loud it hurt his ear drums and made his head ring. So loud he had to do something to quiet it before he went crazy, but what he did instead would've seemed crazy to any bystander witnessing but not able to see what was going on inside his messy fucking mind.   
   He hit the wall, hard. He couldn't tell how hard because the alcohol was working it's magic and he was numb everywhere but inside his own head. He couldn't feel the wall, but he could feel his thoughts suffocating him, smothering him like he often did his cigarettes with the toe of his boot.   
   Another punch. A hole. Another. Another. He couldn't stop. He wasn't aware of when he'd started bleeding, but he didn't care and he didn't stop. He didn't want to. He looked behind him, saw the vase he'd kept because it was his mother's, tall and skinny, forest green like the leaves he found himself staring at when things seemed to be too much, sitting on the counter. Taunting him. Almost laughing at him. I'm the only thing your mother left you, you pathetic piece of garbage, it seemed to say.   
   And he grabbed it. He grabbed it so quickly that the motion made him dizzy, and he slammed it up against the wall, never releasing it from his grip. The vase shattered, glass falling all over the floor, falling all over him, pieces stuck in his hand and his forearm leaving small and deep cuts, bleeding. Blood dripping down his fingertips. And he didn't care about that.   
   He put his back against the wall and his hands over his face, getting blood on the entire left side, and he slid down into a sitting position in the midst of the broken green glass, just as broken as he felt in that moment, and he cried into his hands as hard as he knew how, not caring how loud he was. See, these are the only moments he allowed himself to break, when he was so drunk that he could barely talk and his walking was wobbly, like a newborn foal. And his heart hurt, his chest ached.  
   His body was numb but his head was so loud and his heart felt like it was going to implode and he would be a black hole, sucking up everything around him until nothing existed anymore. And he thought, maybe he already was that black hole. He felt it in his heart.   
   Sometime while he was sitting there, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, the door had opened. He didn't look up, not once, as he heard glass crunching under shoes, and he heard his name in a sad, horrified voice that sounded so far away that he must've been imagining it. But he wasn't imagining it.   
   Two arms circled around him and he felt himself being pulled into a hug. He opened his eyes, looking up over his hands. And what he saw startled him. Big brown eyes, sad. A frown where a gorgeous smile should be. He felt cold, he was so cold and Eddie, being warmth in himself, just pulled Richie to his chest, sitting on the ground in front of him. And Richie let himself be pulled into the embrace.   
   He put his face on Eddie's neck where it met his shoulder and Eddie put his hand on Richie's head, combing through his hair. "It'll be okay, Richie," he heard Eddie whisper, over and over, as Richie sobbed against him. "Everything's gonna be okay."   
   But it wasn't. Nothing was okay, but it felt like it was in that instant, in Eddie's arms. He felt like everything could be better. And he let himself smile through the sobs and slurred a, "thank you, Eddie," in between the tears and gasps for breath. And Eddie just put his cheek against the top of Richie's head and continued combing his fingers through Richie's dark, sweaty curls, letting his nails graze over his scalp ever so lightly. Richie fell asleep like that, in Eddie's arms, feeling warm and safe for the first time in the three years since he'd been left all alone. He wasn't all alone. And the chaos in his mind had slowed, allowing him to sleep.


	6. Dusted Pink

He woke in his bed. How had he gotten there? Richie brought a palm to his forehead. It was bloody. Why was it so bloody? He couldn't remember anything that had happened the night before after he stood from the couch, wiping his tears away. His head throbbed, pain heightening his senses. A slip of paper on his bedside table caught his attention. "Here's some ibuprofen and a glass of water. I'll be over in the morning to check on you." It didn't say who it was from, but Richie had a good idea. Big, sad, scared brown eyes flashed through his mind, the only thing he remembered from the night before.  
He felt around for his phone, found it, unlocked the screen, and winced at how bright it was. Checked the time. 8:30 am.  
Shrugging, he grabbed the two ibuprofen sitting beside the big glass of water and popped him in his mouth, taking a generous, greedy gulp of the cool, clear liquid. His mouth felt so dry that it was like he hadn't had a drink of anything in four days. But he had. And it was almost an entire bottle of Jim Beam.  
He sat the rest of the way up, wincing at the shooting pain in his knuckles. His hand had been bandaged, red stains littering the white gauze going about half way up his forearm. Shit, what had he done last night?  
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed to rest gently on the carpeted floor below him, he decided to go see the damage he had caused. 

Entering the living room, he gaped. Four holes in the wall under the pictures of his parents that he couldn't bring himself to take down. Broken pieces of dark green glass strewn over the white tile of the kitchen, blood drops in the midst of them. His eyes were wide. It clicked. A meltdown.  
A knock at the door distracted him as he was about to start cleaning. Eddie. Richie made his way to the door, carefully stepping around the glass and blood splatters. "Door's open," he said, hopefully loud enough for the boy on the other side to hear. He must've heard, because he opened the door slowly and made his way into the house.  
Richie put his hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it. "I uh...I guess you saw this. Last night, I mean?" He motioned to the mess with his other hand.  
Eddie just nodded.  
"Fuck I'm sorry you did."  
"I left my wallet in your car by accident. So I came over to see if I could get it. And I heard crashing. I knocked on the door, but you didn't answer and it was unlocked. I thought something was wrong I'm sor-"  
"It's alright," Richie cut him off quietly, his voice low and thick with sleep. "I'm sort of glad you did." A shrug. "I don't know if I would've stopped if you didn't." He looked at the pictures of his parents, glass cracked in the frame. He wondered if they missed him.  
Glancing back at Eddie, he saw a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It looked sad.  
"Well, I guess you know me now a little better than I had hoped for you to." He chuckled dryly, no humor behind it.  
Eddie looked to the floor. "How..how are you feeling?"  
Richie almost jumped at the words. No one had asked him that in so long and it was weird, but it felt good. His chest was warm. "Better. Sore, tired, yearning for a cigarette. But better."  
Eddie nodded. "Good, that's good. I'm glad."  
Richie glanced around the living room, spotted his cigarettes. He made his way toward them, past Eddie. And he let himself walk a little too close, his hand brushing Eddie's arm as he passed. The other boy didn't seem to mind.  
Grabbing the cigarettes off the table beside the couch, he pulled one out. Offered Eddie one. "No," he said, "I don't smoke." There wasn't a bite behind his words, his voice was nothing but kind. Why was he being so nice to him?  
"Alright," Richie mumbled around the cigarette resting on his bottom lip.  
"Thank you though," Eddie mumbled, his cheeks dusted pink.  
   Richie smiled. Genuinely smiled without feeling sad or melancholic about something, for the first time in a long time.  
   He stuck his hand out to Eddie, feeling a little too ambitious. "Friends?" He tried to keep the hopeful sound from his voice.  
   "Friends," Eddie said through a toothy smile, grabbing his hand firmly and shaking.  
   Eddie was beautiful and Richie couldn't tear his gaze away from that smile. And Richie was giddy with anticipation. Friends. He hadn't had a friend since the last of the losers left. He hadn't had a friend since he walked in on Stanley Uris in his bathroom, water bloody, still fully clothed. He hadn't had a friend since Stan left to get help. How he'd longed for a friend.


	7. Join Me

   Richie listened to music for the first time in around three weeks as he was cleaning up the broken glass from the floor. Eddie was with him, helping. Cleaning the blood off of the tiles. Learn to Fly by the Foo Fighters hummed softly in the background as they cleaned.  
Eddie opened his mouth to speak. "Never pegged you as a Foo Fighter fan," he mused.  
"Don't peg me as stuff." Richie shrugged and laughed quietly, then started singing along to the song ever so quietly. Soft voice slightly scratchy. Eddie listened with a small smile on his face as he continued to wipe the blood away with a towel.  
Richie had never been nervous singing in front of people, and as the song drew to a close, Eddie applauded jokingly and Richie took a playful bow, winking and shooting a smirk in the other boy's direction. 

They went on like this for at least a good hour, Richie picking up the big pieces of glass first and then sweeping up the pieces he couldn't see. Pushing his glasses back onto his nose, he snuck a glance at Eddie, trying to get a single blood stain out of the carpet.  
"Hey, thank you."  
Eddie gazed up at him. "Hmm?"  
"For..for this. For helping me out. I usually do the cleanup on my own." His voiced cracked a small bit and it made his face flush.  
"You seem to do a lot of stuff alone, huh?" Eddie's voice had a hint of sadness in it as Richie nodded. "I understand the feeling," he admitted softly.  
Richie nodded again and squatted beside him, squeezing the smaller boy's shoulder with his long, almost aristocratic fingers.  
Eddie simply looked at the bigger hand enveloping almost his entire shoulder and gave it a tiny smile, barely there.  
Renegades of Funk by Rage Against the Machine started playing through the speakers and Richie pulled out his phone, turning the volume up. He whistled. "Oh shit," he half yelled, "I love this fucking song."  
"Now that's more like it," Eddie laughed.  
Richie shot him a look that said shut up but he laughed in response and started dancing around the room. Wild, not really paying attention to the way his body was moving, just going with the music. But he was somehow still good. His body moved perfectly to the song, lanky limbs moving in sync with the beat, long dark curls swinging around.  
He heard Eddie stifle a laugh and held his hand out to him. "Join me," Richie said with a wink.  
"Oh I'm not any good at dancing.." Eddie's face flushed.  
"You don't have to be good, there are no judgments inside these walls."  
Richie saw something flash in Eddie's eyes before he finally took Richie's hand and started jumping around in beat to the music. Wondering what that look was, Richie's dancing slowed, became more distracted.  
He got over it quickly, deciding with a shrug that it was nothing. Hoping it was nothing at least.  
The quick, loud song came to a stop and Tonight Tonight by Smashing Pumpkins started to play, giving Richie no time to think it over before he pulled Eddie close, swaying them together to the beat of the slower, sweeter song. His arms snaked around Eddie's waist, and Eddie's hands eventually found their way to Richie's shoulders. His face became red.  
Richie started singing along, to Eddie, without realizing it. And Eddie only smiled as his eyelids fluttered at the sound of Richie's scratchy but somehow still smooth voice.  
They continued to sway like that, Eddie's eyelids heavy. Richie continued to sing.  
"And the embers never fade in your city by the lake  
The place where you were born  
Believe, believe in me, believe  
In the resolute urgency of now," he hummed, leaning close to Eddie's ear. That time, his eyes did flutter shut. And in no time, the soft song was over.  
And Scar Tissue was playing next. But they remained swaying. It was nothing, friends slow danced all the time. Just because Eddie was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen doesn't mean that dancing together was a big deal. But oh how he wished it was.  
"Soft spoken with a broken jaw," Richie sung less quietly now, letting the bass in his voice take over. Letting his love for the music playing and for the moment take over, he let go and let his voice grow louder, using his full, effortless talent.  
And oh, how Eddie seemed to be enjoying his voice. Who wouldn't? It was gorgeous, he was so effortlessly good at everything. Any onlooker wouldn't be able to tell that he hated himself so much. He was beautiful, almost ethereal. His voice was amazing, raspy and still smooth as butter. But he sang the sad songs with purpose, and if anyone would listen hard enough, just pay attention to the way his voice cracks beautifully, they'd know the songs spoke to him in a way that nothing else could. They'd know that those songs were his only way to express the things he was feeling without being so drunk that he saw double. Without breaking down and breaking anything in sight, from walls, to picture frames and vases, to his knuckles.  
The song ended slowly, reluctantly and Richie pulled away first, smiling delicately down at Eddie, like his demeanor might break at any second and the sadness that always lingers, even in his best moments, might come spilling out all over the place like vomit after a bad night.  
"Let's go do something, yeah? Maybe grab a bite to eat or some coffee. I'm starving." Richie's voice sounded quiet under the beat of Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Eddie simply nodded in response.  
Richie had to get out of the house. He couldn't stop thinking about everything that had happened here, couldn't stop feeling like he was going to break at any moment in front of Eddie again, like the sadness was going to flood the entire room if he didn't leave. He didn't want to see Eddie's eyes so scared or pitying ever again.  
So they left the house, exiting through the back door, heading towards Richie's beat up old car. He lit a cigarette and took a drag, inhaled deeply. Smiled.


	8. “I was worried about you.”

   Richie noticed Eddie's eyes on him, watching his moves. Something in the short boy's eyes lit Richie's heart on fire, his cheeks growing hot from the flames in his chest. He looked down quickly, covering his face with his shaggy hair. Bringing his cigarette back up to his lips again, he took a long drag and blew the smoke out, like a secret only he and the breeze shared.   
   Eddie didn't take his eyes off of Richie, a small smile dancing on his lips. His eyes were honey and glitter mixed into a beautiful concoction. Richie only gazed at him through his hair, smirking.   
   "What, Eds, am I that irresistible?" Richie's voice was low, and playfully sensual.   
   Eddie only rolled his glistening eyes, which were almost orange in the pale sunlight. He was beautiful. Truly and utterly gorgeous. His voice caught Richie off guard. "Shut up, trashmouth."   
   Richie let out a laugh and tipped his head back, his hair falling down the back of his neck, his dark curls reaching nearly his shoulders.   
   "You have a nice laugh," Eddie said evenly. "It suits you. You should do it more often."   
   "Then you really wouldn't be able to resist me, huh?" Richie couldn't help it, he'd always been like that around people. All talk. His fingers holding the cigarette found their way to his mouth once again and his lips curled around the filter with no prompt from his brain. It was like a second nature. An addiction.   
   The craving for nicotine never seemed to leave him, but with Eddie, it subsided a bit. He didn't believe in love at first sight. It was bullshit. He didn't believe in fate, or destiny, or anything of the sort. But he did believe that it felt right, here with Eddie, leaning back against his car, side by side. So close together that their arms almost brushed with every slight movement.   
   Eddie's height was honestly really fucking cute. His shoulders barely came to Richie's collar bones, and the taller boy couldn't help but smirk, looking down at Eddie.   
   "What?"   
   Richie shook his head. "Nothin'. So what do you want to eat? My treat."   
   "Your treat?"   
   "Yeah, I'm payin'."   
   Eddie shook his head quickly. "Most certainly not."  
   "Aw cmon, I owe you for last night."  
   Eddie flushed. "You don't owe me anything. I was worried about you."   
   Richie's heart simultaneously leapt to his throat and fell into the pit of his stomach. No one had been worried about him in years. The words almost hurt. He flinched a bit, then took the last hit of his cigarette and dropped the butt to the ground, smothering the glowing tip with the sole of his boot.   
   "Worried, huh?" He tried to drain all of the emotion out of his eyes, out of his expression, but he failed. He failed because little sparkling tears welled up at the corners and threatened to fall down his cheeks like a mudslide. He failed because he couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from tugging downwards ever so slightly. So much so that he wasn't even sure Eddie could notice if he had looked up at the taller sad boy's face.   
   But something in Eddie's expression told Richie that he had noticed, after all. And Richie felt so stupid for letting those five simple words get to him in the way that they had. He couldn't help it. He hadn't heard those words since Mike had stopped talking to him, those years ago. It felt like yesterday and centuries ago all at once, and Richie hated that those few people, those friends of his who had been the best and only friends he'd ever had, had so much control over his feelings still, two years after they'd all left him.   
   It hurt to think about them, to think about the things they'd done together. About the secrets they'd told, all the things they'd went through. How they'd accepted Richie when he'd told them he liked boys and girls. How they'd stopped accepting him when he told them he wanted to kill himself.   
   He felt jealous, he'd admitted to himself about a year after they'd left him alone. They'd helped Stan as much as they could, they'd loved him after what happened, they'd supported him and made sure he'd never felt alone again.   
   But when Richie admitted to wanting to die, they'd dropped him like a bad habit. And it hurt. It hurt so fucking much, and that's when his more deadly addictions came to the surface. He'd hoped they would kill him. That he wouldn't directly have to do it, just in case he'd survived. That way he wouldn't have to go through what Stan went through. Treated like any wrong word could send him over the edge, and into another attempt. But maybe that was exactly how Richie was. Maybe words would hurt him and send him spiraling down once again, into that dark and painful place. But maybe instead of words, it would be the lack thereof that would do it.   
   Richie shook his head, as if trying to clear the thoughts that seem to have taken refuge in the forefront of his mind.   
   He looked at Eddie, probably still looking very pained, and uttered a small "thank you," before getting into the drivers seat of the car and turning the key in the ignition.   
   Eddie followed suit and dropped into the passenger seat after stepping around the front of the vehicle.   
     
   He kept his eyes on Richie almost the entire ride.   
   Richie was barely hungry, but breakfast sounded great right about then. So he pulled into the nearest Waffle House, and glanced at Eddie, noticing his smile that took up almost his entire face, all white and straight teeth. He was basically glowing with excitement.   
   "Thought breakfast sounded great," Richie said with a small smile, checking the time on his phone. "It's only 9:37."   
   Eddie nodded. "You're still not paying though."   
   "Or so you think," Richie laughed, opening the car door and stepping out. Stretching.


End file.
